


a daydream, or a fever

by noah_pascal



Category: Everyman HYBRID
Genre: Age Regression Overtones, Clothed Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Grinding, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Squirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-26 14:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18181514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noah_pascal/pseuds/noah_pascal
Summary: Vin doesn’t know how to make good decisions. James chooses not to.





	a daydream, or a fever

**Author's Note:**

> I thought if I wrote [a few drabbles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918441/chapters/37215728), I could leave this stupidity behind. Well, ~~fuck me I guess~~ honk honk, it’s your friendly neighborhood garbage man where do you want this dumpster.
> 
> Title is from "The Dead Flag Blues" by Godspeed You! Black Emperor. This isn’t fact, advice, or instruction.

“’Cause the doctor? He’s in.”

It’s a stupid joke, this jarring, misplaced humor sprung on him. Like this man’s very presence, sudden and unexplained yet again. An intruder almost as startling as the others. It doesn’t need a response, but there’s a sensation of déjà vu, and a muscle memory in him that moves his mouth, _makes_ him say, “Dad, knock it off.”

It’s enough to get him to end his speech, clasp Vin’s shoulder, and ask, “Are you okay?”

Shame burns through him, destroying any familiar feelings and, left with hot embarrassment, he can only think to say, “Huh?”

Because he doesn’t understand the question. He doesn’t understand anything, really. Can’t process the mind-bending monstrosity he’s been pulled from. Can’t sift through the words that have been thrown at him. Can’t concentrate when his bones ache from the fall onto his—it was his right, or was it theirs—basement floor while his skin buzzes from the lingering feel of hands bringing him to standing. He doesn’t even know what he means when he answers, “I don’t know.”

Corenthal looks over the rim of his glasses with eyes that bore through Vin, like he’s looking for his dead son, and suggests, “You need to sit a little longer?” even though he’s just said they have to get moving. Then, instead of reconsidering and pushing him to stand, he wraps Vin in his whole arm.

From what little Vin’s been able to grasp of the situation they’re in, he’s expecting a squeeze and a shove, but, no. Corenthal pulls him to his side and keeps him there.

Vin doesn’t want to fight the hold on him, but he’s tense as he fits against the doctor’s body, uncertain if he can’t relax because of Corenthal’s unfamiliarity—someone he’s only known through letters and a blue, ghostly haze—or if he’s uncomfortable because he’s grown unused to how warm it is when another body gives against him.

“You okay?” he asks again, trying to tug Vin closer when they’re already hip to hip, when Vin’s hand is very close to touching this man’s thigh. “I’m not trying to make you feel worse.”

How could this possibly make him feel worse? He’s at the lowest point. Everyone close to him, everyone he could trust, has been driven off, and his attempts at normalcy were shaking apart before he decided to pick up where he and Jeff left off, once and for all. This doctor hated by the world is the only hope he has left, and he thinks he’s making it worse.

And if Vin doesn’t lose the tenseness in his shoulders, he’s scared this peace will be over. His mouth, overflowing a minute ago, has clamped itself shut, and he can’t coax out any sounds to make Corenthal understand, even though he can feel begging building in his chest. The strain of holding of his spine stiff and his pleading noises back has him vibrating, and he’s sure Corenthal can feel it through his hand, sitting heavy on his arm.

It’s humiliating to look needy and unhinged in front of a man so in control, but the misery that overtakes him when he imagines how that hand will withdraw, how he’ll be made to leave, has him forcing the tension from his body and dropping into false familiarity with this man.

“You don’t have to do this for my sake, to humor an old man,” he jokes, rubbing his thumb against Vin’s shoulder blade. “You’ve had it rough as it is.”

That’s the real joke. That he’s been singled out to have a hard time. He’s acutely aware that he’s been spared the worst of it, and the sag to his shoulders turns genuine as he comes face to face with his guilt again. Stupid little boy playing at games he doesn’t understand.

“It’s all right,” he says with another pull, essentially rocking him. “You don’t need to worry right now.”

If anyone knows more than Vin does, it’s Corenthal. Someone who’s clearly seeing a bigger picture than he is. Though at this point, he wonders, is there anyone who doesn’t know more than he does, when all Vin’s done is run in circles and grope at nothing?

In an act of concession, Vin finally lets go of his camera, dangling it out of his hand and letting it fall to the ground.

And he collapses into James’s chest.

He cups the back of Vin’s head, runs his fingers through his hair, saying, “I know. It doesn’t get easier, does it?”

Vin tries very hard not to think about what that means and runs far away from questions about the assertion that he has a brother and sister, James’s dead children who share his friends’ names, and all his frighteningly realistic dreams of dying.

The past is too close to the present in this place. It won’t stop inviting him to lose himself in memory, and his fearful thoughts get derailed by the green in his peripheral vision and James’s hand stroking the back of his neck. Instead of thoughts of the long past, his mind returns him to bragging with Evan as he carted him through the woods. The sunlight on his skin combines with the fingers raking through his hair to remind him of laughing as Jessa combed Jeff’s hair into fluff.

There’s nowhere to escape except to go further into James, and it’s not like he could think Vin is any more pathetic than he does right now. Some dumb kid pressing his face into his chest, scared of boogeymen. It’s hardly going to make a difference if he worms his hand behind James to place it on the small of his back. 

The hold over his mouth loosens as heat sinks into his palm, and he can’t help but sigh.

“We’ve still got time. It’s okay,” James assures him, rubbing at his arm like he needs warmed up.

The house was freezing, either by its nature or by his fear, but out here, the sun is bright, and James is so warm that Vin’s overheated, sweat beginning to slide down his back, and now, he wants closer. It’s his turn to bump their hips together, searching for any extra space to remove. The hand he’d laid against his shirt now twists in it, roughly clinging, and the give of James’s body is so soothing to the bruises forming on his skin that he lets out the tiniest moan.

Which James must hear because he’s trying to tip Vin’s head up, asking, “How’re you feeling?”

He’s floating. He’s sinking. He’s dizzy-headed and, reaching for anything to ground himself, grabs James’s knee, fingers brushing his inner thigh.

James squirms at his grasping, and Vinny considers how this position might look to an outsider. Someone stumbling across two men in an embrace, an _intimate_ position in disheveled clothing, thinking maybe they interrupted a proposition if they notice hand settled against knee.

His first reaction to the thought is a shock of pride at the idea that this imaginary voyeur might be pleased at the sight of them. It’s quickly followed by the burn of Vin wanting to be found in that position, if it meant having that intimacy again. He brushes his fingers farther up his thigh, lets his other hand dip under his shirt to drag the pads of his fingers along the edge of James’s belt.

He questions, in this universe he’s conjured up, would the stranger assume they’re stumbling onto a father and son in a moment of parental love, only to be disgusted when they see where the boy’s hands are? Would they be intrigued because they’re not quite sure if they’ve walked in on something taboo, whether by age or by relation, and felt a burning catch inside them, too?

“Vinny,” he says, tipping Vin’s chin up. “Baby, you don’t have to do this.”

James dresses to the right, and adrenaline has filled him out, he’s thinks, feeling him through his jeans. Or, maybe he’s not entirely unaffected by a young man draped over his body, softly whining into his chest. Vin lets his thumb play through the cloth again, tilting his eyes away from James’s face, so he can get the words out. “Please? Let me?”

He’s taking audible breaths as Vinny slides from the bench to the ground, lowering himself slowly, so James can stop him if he wants. In case he decides Vinny is bad, wasn’t worth saving. If some level head prevails, and he’s hauled up and thrown out of the garden.

But he isn’t stopped from settling his knees in the dirt. Still wary, he continues at a glacial pace, crawling into the clutch of James’s thighs, laying hands on his belt, opening the teeth of his zipper.

No hands shoot out to grab his arms or to push his face from where he moves cloth out of the way. He licks his palm, too nervous to make a show of it, and drags it up the length of him. James doesn’t need much encouragement, more likely from their positions than any skill of his, because Vinny’s going fuzzier having to look up from so low. His hand moves in slow jerks as his eyes drift shut and his tongue wets his lips.

The wood creaks, and Vin stops, heart pounding, but it’s only James, with his eyes skyward, shifting his hips closer to the edge. When Vinny doesn’t resume his movements, he looks down at him with an expectant turn to his mouth.

His longing’s been sanctioned, and Vinny takes him into his mouth.

It won’t be memorable in any meaningful way—not by talent, at least. Not when excitement and nerves have him trembling and going too fast, taking at much as he can without hesitation. Not something he’d brag about, not something extraordinary he couldn’t help but bring up after a few beers with an old partner.

Vin’s partners had never praised his ability, but they’d had things to say about his enthusiasm. About his endurance. About the lack of care for his appearance when he got carried away and drool started running down his chin, his pleased hums reverberating through them.

He’s not in that state yet, hasn’t quite slipped into abandon. He’s still self-conscious, concerned that his performance isn’t attractive. All lips and tongue and scrabbling to get closer, then pulling back to mouth under his head and down his shaft. Not looking up in case his desire isn’t as infectious as he hopes it is.

James is groaning, though, biting off words before he can get more than a syllable out, and each sound sends a jolt through him, inciting his determination.

Vinny wants more sound, more skin, more in his mouth, but doesn’t know how to get it. He grabs for what he can reach—James’s hands. He holds them briefly, then directs them to his head. “Please,” he begs, weaving the fingers into his hair. Without more words to ask for what he wants—make me, you decide, show me how—he puts his mouth back to slick skin and waits.

James understands his need—or just wants him to hurry up. He cants his hips and yanks at Vinny’s hair, pulling him down. “You always wanted to be a good boy, didn’t you?”

He hums against the weight on his tongue and tries to keep pace with James, who’s speaking more and more as his hips move faster, asking if he likes it like this, telling him how good he feels, praising how hot his mouth is.

But Vinny’s lost again, pressing his thighs together, wriggling his hips at the knowledge that James is going to come apart because of him. This powerful man is grunting and forcing his head still, and Vinny stiffens his tongue for him to jerk against. He hadn’t planned on pulling back anyway, and when James fills his mouth, he swallows, desperate just to _have_.

He relaxes his mouth around him, but he doesn’t move until he’s nudged away. “Darling boy,” James says, as Vinny rests his head against his thigh.

James has to be the one to put himself away, shifting this way and that on the bench, because Vinny is absolutely useless, only capable of staring at him and thrusting his hips against nothing. He’s too distracted by his own pleasure to realize that James has been asking him questions as he peers down at him.

“—up here?” he asks, patting his lap. “Do you need help?”

James reaches for him, takes hold of Vinny’s arms, and tugs him out of kneeling. Vinny stumbles to his feet, then forward, digging his knees into the bench and crowding James back.

Vinny can feel every heartbeat between his spread legs as he pours himself into James’s lap. He curls down to press his face into James’s chest, rocking into his belly, chasing after friction.

“You still want to be good for me?” he asks, grabbing Vinny’s hips.

“Yes,” he agrees. That’s all he’s ever wanted, to be able to do good things.

“Oh, baby,” he says, pressing his lips against his forehead, to his cheek, behind his ear. “Then, please, don’t listen to them.”

Vinny tries to tuck his head into James’s neck, but he tips his chin up again. “No, pay attention. Promise you’re not going to let them get you.”

He shakes his head as much as he can with his jaw in James’s grip. “I won’t. I won’t.”

“Good.” He lets go and drags his hips back into motion as Vinny hides his face. “You were such a good kid.”

The friction he gets is sweet when he grinds himself against the parts of James he can reach, but it’s not enough to get him there. Even though he’s trembling with how close he is, shivering as he feels a drop of slick slide between his cheeks. He whines, mouths _please_ into his neck, trying to find a way to ask for what he needs.

Again, James seems to know what Vinny wants without him having to find the words. He reaches down to press between his thighs, palm dragging against his dick, fingers pressing through his pants where he’s spread open.

He goes rigid as his mind dreams up what it’d be like to ride him, wonders if he’d have enough room to take him inside right here. He works his hips faster, almost there, when he imagines having the courage to shout his name, and there’s a whisper in his ear, telling him, _he’s expecting to hear_ daddy _from you_.

Vinny digs in hard, gasping as he feels himself gush, his slick pouring out and soaking into his clothes.

James rubs his hands up and down his back and leans in close as Vinny lays shaking his arms. He’s expecting another kiss to his ear, soft and sweet for a good boy, but James is saying, breathless, “We gotta, we gotta get you outta here.”

Vin goes stiff and snaps his head up, startled to remember that his time here was supposed to be short, that he needed to leave. There are things after him, and they can find him, even in paradise.

He scoots back unsteadily, needing to balance himself on James’s shoulders, then knees, to stand upright. He takes a breath and, squaring his shoulders, looks to James to understand what he means because he can’t say the words.

James doesn’t let him down. He’s lead out of Eden with no answers, only shaky knees and damp pants.

And longing, backward glances.

 

It takes an embarrassingly long time for him to accept that his phone’s date isn’t wrong, to reason that his car had been towed, to admit that there wasn’t anything else he could do except call his parents for help, then sit in the parking lot waiting for them to pick him up. Like he’s a little boy again. Done playing. Time to go home.

They find him shivering and obsessively wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, bruises beginning to show down the whole left side of him. It takes them hours before they’re done crying themselves sick at the sight of him, when he won’t stop flinching away from their touches and pleas to talk to the police. Only when he claims exhaustion, begging to lay down before he passes out where he stands, do they let him withdraw to his dusty sheets with his laptop and the lump of footage from his time at the property. 

He jams his headphones in the computer so he can look at shots of their feet, listen to the sound of James’s voice telling him they’ll be okay.

So he can watch his knees hit the dirt.

He shoves his hand into his pants and whimpers _daddy_ into his fist.


End file.
